1:52 AM, January 7th, 2016

Sebastian Moran calmly and efficiently began setting up the sniper rifle in the empty house across from Baker Street.

Three years ago, he was given a contract. Set up in a stairway that will be kept clear during an allotted slot of time, and if Sherlock Holmes does not jump, shoot John Watson. That was all he had to do. Sherlock jumped, so he packed up and waited for his employer and colleague -and the closest thing he had to a friend although he would never say it aloud- to contact him.

Several days passed, but he didn't mind waiting. His employer -friend- was a busy man, but on the rare occasions he was free they might sit down and discuss inane things completely unrelated to work.

Then the news released the events occurring on the rooftop, given to them by the police. James Moriarty was found with a gun in his hand and a bullet through his mouth. The exact events that had taken place were still unknown, but the angle of the bullet and the saliva on the gun showed Moriarty -Jim- had committed suicide.

Moran had an idea of how John Watson felt at that point.

But then he'd heard whispers. Moriarty's -Jim's- empire was still standing strong, despite the loss of its leader. Orders were passed on through so many people, so much was self-sustaining, it would probably run for a long time before slowly starting to disintegrate. Except it wasn't. It was falling, members dropping like flies, little by little by little.

So he'd done some digging. Nothing had come up, but then, almost three years later-

Sherlock Holmes was alive. Oh, how he burned with anger! How it tore away at him, that Holmes should survive and Jim should be dead and disgraced and forgotten!

Part of him wanted to return to London that very night and place a bullet through John Watson's brain, but that would never do. Holmes needed to pay, first, and then Watson could die. Or, better yet, take them both out at the same time! If Holmes was alive, surely he would return to his friend and inform him of such news! At this point, he was the last one standing of Jim's empire, and Holmes had no reason to fear retribution from anyone.

So he had returned to London. He had found Watson's place of residence and watched for a day or so. From what he had gained from the neighbors, Watson was a quiet man, rather sad. Widowed, with one child, rarely had visitors, not exactly social... ah, old women were a far better source of information than any hired men; they saw everything!

So, over the course of the holidays, when Watson had several visitors, none of whom were family and one of whom looked very different both times but was clearly the same person, Moran knew that Holmes had indeed returned.

The next day he went to Baker Street. The old lady was still there, but later in the day, Watson came by with his child and then shortly after a stout little elderly man carrying several books was let in.

The plan was simple. Holmes would no doubt be in Baker Street; Watson's flat was too small to host more than one. Watson might return to Baker Street as well for the night, falling back into familiar habits, but even if he didn't it would be a simple task to place a bullet through Holmes' skull and then Watson's.

Simple.

He could see Holmes' silhouette. against the curtained window of 221B, and a second shadow in the background showed that Watson was indeed there. Holmes was standing in one place, occasionally turning, which made Moran's job far easier.

He finished setting up the rifle and moved to open the window.

Something slammed into him from behind, sending him stumbling forwards. His forehead cracked against the windowpanes, and by that point, no matter how much he struggled, he was firmly pinned down.

"Is killing you going to take all night?" Moran sighed, staring into the faces of Holmes and Watson.

"I would hope not, I have plans later," Holmes replied coldly, glaring. "If you would care to do the honors, John?" he asked lightly. Watson nodded stiffly, there was a blossom of fiery pain across the left side of his head, and then blackness.

Sherlock and John looked down at the now unconscious man. Despite his current state his expression was frozen somewhere between disbelief and shock. John tucked his revolved into the waistband of his pants and pulled his jacket around it to conceal it while Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"Lestrade should be waiting with a team of Scotland Yard's... well, I want to say finest, but I fear that would be an inaccurate description," he said, sending a brief message.

220 Baker Street. Apprehended suspect.
-SH

"It was a bit easy though, don't you think?" John asked. Sherlock's head snapped up, and John's eyes widened as he realized what he just said. He quickly amended his former statement. "I mean- Moran. It didn't take much to capture him." Sherlock regarded him for a long few minutes without blinking, eyes eerily reminiscent of a cat as they reflected what little light came into the room, but then he smiled.

"Well, I had my blogger with me this time, didn't I? Ah, I believe that would be Lestrade now. Interesting, their response time is getting better."

"This is their normal response time," John pointed out.

"No, it's faster." John chuckled and looked out the window.

"Lestrade's here," he commented. "Three squad cars... Oh, wonderful." Sherlock walked over, stepping across Moran's unconscious form and stopping at John's side. His expression curdled into disdain.

"Sarcasm suits neither of us," he sighed. "Well, I had hoped to leave them out of this for longer..."

"Look at it this way," John reasoned. "Now you can go back to your games of insulting Anderson and Donovan." Sherlock slowly nodded, and they both turned around at the sound of a door being opened downstairs and loud voices echoing up.

"Quite true," he agreed. "Quite true."

Posting in honor of National Sherlock Day in America. :) 2 . 21. 13

Hope you enjoyed the chapter!